She
by Eve Random
Summary: As I walk to claim my place, an upward tick of my chin orders my drink. It's ready by the time my jacket is on the hook behind me and the leather barstool has sighed its relief to see me again. I take a tongue tingling sip, and then I look for her. AU ficlet


The last of the Autumn colored leaves rattle across the concrete at my feet as my hand comes to rest on on the thick brass bar that lies across the imposing carved wood door. I pause in the foyer, barely enough shelter for two people, checking the mirror to assess the chaos the frolicking November winds have caused my never really neat to begin with hair. I unknot and re-knot the tangle of blonde atop my head- zero impact on order achieved. The second door, far less stately than the first, gives way with a small push, while I loosen the scarf around my neck and the single fastened button on my jacket; both no longer necessary to keep the concrete canyon winds at bay.

Bars like this usually command atmosphere with clinging tendrils of blue white smoke from conversations long ashen. But at this early hour, it's left to make do with what little beer has been spilt and the few bodies radiating their contributions of cologne, breath mints, and hand soap. My regular seat, is on the backside of the central rectangular bar, away from the door. From there, I can watch the bar staff slowly pick up the speed of their dance with each other and the customers, until it reaches a pace that's no longer a soothing waltz, but rather a tension-filled tango. As I walk to claim my place, an upward tick of my chin orders my drink. It's ready by the time my jacket is on the hook behind me and the leather stool has sighed its relief to see me again.

I take a tongue tingling sip, and then I look for her.

She's not here nearly as much as me, suggesting a better relationship with her liver than I've ever had. But she's here enough that I feel safe expecting her. Sometimes at the bar, not even unpacking her phone, for a quick drink before hurrying off. Sometimes at a booth anointed as "the meeting place" for people she shakes hands with, for people to whom she feigns cheek kisses, for people she hugs warmly. Today, she's at a booth, her briefcase posing as company across from her.

My job, as I slowly sip, is to sift the sand and silt and grit of her presence for any and all shiny bits of enlightenment on she. One day her shoulder length dark brown hair was suddenly shorn, replaced with a dramatic shock of wavy bangs, clipped sides and nape. She'd come fresh from the cut, her fingers still newly enamored with the prick of her stubbly nape, her eyes not yet accustomed to the visual obstruction of the waterfall of bangs.

Her drink, she orders scotch. I can tell by the label of the bottle for which the bartender stretches upwards to reach. It's not the most expensive bottle on the shelf, but it's a single malt, something you don't pay for without company unless you understand its value. She knows what she wants.

That fact makes me all the more curious about the flavor of the electrons she stirs with a touch and then dispatches on her phone. Are they commands? Are they beguiling requests? Or are they statements of fact without the slightest suggestion of subjectivity?

Her voice, I've never heard. Even when she greets with warm hugs and big smiles, the drown of the clinking bar glasses and murmur of the minions overcomes her voice easily. I watch her lips move, and I'm left to wonder if it would pool like warm honey, gently, softly in my ear or awaken me to a note I've never heard.

Her name, I don't know. And, at some point, I stopped imagining. I'd held many up to her chin, dangling from wire hangers, checking the fit, the cut, the color against her tan skin. Some lasted seconds, others only until I saw her again and discarded them. I decided that her name will be a name that I haven't heard before, a name that bears no history to my ears. A seed planted the day she speaks it to me.

That leads to far less noble thoughts. Thoughts that compete to stand front and center. Before the haircut, I wondered how her hair would look splayed damp across my pillow. After, I wonder what level of disarray could I cause those waves. Once that door is open, the questions flood in. How close would I have to be to smell her? How long before I was granted the privilege of her true scent, the scent that is hers with no effort, no packaging. The scent she is never without. Where would I find it? The inside of her wrist, the nape of her neck, under the swell of her breast, between her legs? Where would I find this scent that is undeniably she and that once found, would make my mouth water? That first time, would she melt or tense under my fingers? I imagined the feel of her nipples hard against the palm of my hand. I imagined the taste of her skin and agreed I'd spend hours, days if needed, mapping which trails would yield me purrs, which would deliver me growls, which were best saved for the no looking back last.

Inevitably, though, she would reach for her phone, raise her glass to drink, or tuck those mischievous tendrils behind her ear, and a flash of silver would close that door, stamp those questions 'return to sender'. And I'd free my glass of the last sip of my drink, refit my scarf close to my skin, pay my tab and reach for my jacket.

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A/N: Thank you for being uber beta, Ms Atomic


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